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One of the numerous things about human beings that completely baffle me is why we insist on lying to ourselves. It’s entirely possible that I am the only one actually guilty of this, and that fact doesn’t really console me. In fact, it infuriates me more than the lying does. You know which part is the strangest? The absolute shock and horror when I realize that I lied to myself. Again. How dare I?

I am officially in an adulterous relationship with myself – discovering every transgression, much like lipstick on the collar of a cheating spouse, (I am wracking my brains trying to figure out what the lesbian equivalent is since we all know lipstick is not a given – do I suck as a lesbian for not knowing? Do I suck as a human being for thinking inappropriate thoughts when someone mentions sucking?)

Like with any other extra-marital affair the lies range in gravity. You get the tiny little lies that leave very little undisturbed – no real harm done, right? In this category would be the honey-I’m-working-late lie. The tiny little lies I tell myself range from, I will start keeping a regular diary (you can probably copy the bible word for word on the pages of my unwritten diaries) to, I will really stop farting in the car (again, this could only be me, but I would feel significantly better about myself if I can get some validation from fellow farters).

These are some of the little lies that irk me the most.

1) I will start keeping a regular diary (surprise)

No, I probably won’t. In fact, I honestly don’t see the fucking point. What am I? Anne Frank? The reality is that if I had to keep a regular diary and some unlucky bastard happens to stumble across it years from now, he would not gain one ounce of wisdom from it – if it’s a he, he will probably feel that we are kindred spirits if he comes across my motivation summary for topless Fridays. If it’s a she, she would run screaming from the attic. Yes, my diary would be buried in an attic. It sounds cooler than it being discovered between two copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and How to win friends and influence people. I don’t know which one scarred me more.

2) I will stop farting in the car

I actually find this one a little disturbing and will try and give it another shot. No promises.

3) I will stop biting my fingernails

Yes, I will. For short periods of time. The truth is that I don’t care how many fucking strains of bacteria can be found under my nails. When so-and-so from this-or-that-department gets on my tits, I will take out all of my frustration on my fingernails. Unlike punching someone in the balls, biting my nails will never get me fired.

4) I will lose weight

Yes, I will substitute my pasta meals for lunch with the odd cracker and tuna here and there, desperately trying to convince myself that the smell of tuna makes me feel connected to the ocean. It doesn’t. It makes my office smell like the underwear of a crack whore. And what are all those little veiny parts? Are they fucking veins?

5) I will not be so quick-tempered

I prefer the word cantankerous, because it makes me sound like a superhero instead of the foaming-at-the-mouth-hyperventilating-bitch that I can be sometimes. Look, let it not be said that I haven’t tried in this department. I’ve had arrangements with humanity before – you stop acting like an asshole and I will play nice. Problem is, there’s always this one bright spark that will renege on the deal and that means all bets are off and out comes my inner-bitch. I can tell you that she does not count to ten and take deep breaths. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

6) I will stop being so opinionated

Just fucking no.

7) I will remember to untangle my socks (I wear two pairs of socks every day – the white ones go on first, and then I cover them with black ones. Don’t judge. That’s a different blog entirely) before I put them in the washing. At the same time I will remember to unroll the sleeves of my shirts (90% of my shirts are three-quarters – yet another blog on its own).

I feel like I should work harder at this one. Also, my girlfriend reads my blogs. Also, she packs my lunch and who knows how she might retaliate? With veiny tuna perhaps!

8) I will stop swearing

See number 6 above

9) I will try not to ingest some form of chocolate every day

See number 6 above

That deals with the tiny little lies. I feel like I should at least mention the more outrageous and hurtful lies. Not because they leave me whimpering in a corner with my thumb in my mouth, but because if I see them on paper, I just might break if off with the skanky version of myself completely. These are the more serious lies, such as it-only-happened-that-one-time-and-she-means-nothing-to-me. These are the more devastating lies. The ones that keep us tossing and turning at night, fantasizing about chopping that mistress up in tiny little pieces and serving her as dinner to the neighbor’s dog. Or my other favorite – slashing through her Achilles tendons and setting a fire behind her. Thank goodness I’m not vindictive or anything like that. I feel like I should mention that I haven’t been cheated on. It could be because my girlfriend is honorable, but it could also be because she is fond of her Achilles tendons. I’m going with the honorable part.

These are the big fat lies that make me cry.

1) I will stop taking it so personally when my novel is turned down for publication

Firstly, have you popped out a novel from the deep recesses of your soul? I know that makes it sound like releasing a turd after being severely constipated, but try on your serious face. If you haven’t, then please don’t pretend like you know how it feels when someone takes a stroll around the inside of your mind and pass judgement on your decorating abilities. Nothing will ever be as personal as that. It’s very similar to people commenting on your baby’s big ears, or that lazy little eye that you perceive as uniquely beautiful while the rest of the world calls it squint.

It will be devastating every fucking time. I’m okay with that. It makes me want to do it even more. I can be a stubborn little fucker that way.

2) I will not be lonely when I’m seventy and childless

There will come a time when I will look in the mirror and the person staring back at me will be the only person left. That’s my reality and I live with it every day. Besides the practical benefits of having grown-up children when you are seventy, such as diaper changing, ass-wiping, feeding and clothing, there is obviously the sentimental value of knowing that you were responsible for the miracle that is life. I will never be able to point at someone and say, “Look, I contributed to who that wonderful person became”. I will just be honest and admit right now that I am more terrified of the fact that I don’t know who will wipe my ass. Also, I have really sensitive skin and if my diaper is not changed often enough there will be fiery consequences. Literally.

3) Nothing scares me

This can’t possibly be true for any human being, can it? I mean just look at number 2 above. I’ve already admitted that I’m terrified of thinking about who will wipe my ass. Fear is relative though, so what scares you might not scare me and vice versa. Very little does scare me, but I’m not immune. The thought of trying to figure out how to cope with the loss of a parent scares me as much as it does the next person. Imagining my life without my girlfriend is horrifying – nobody will ever love me as profoundly, understand me as effortlessly, and trust me as unquestionably. Moths. They scare the living shit out of me.

You might find it interesting that it took me all of 10 minutes to list the 9 little lies, while it took me longer than an hour to list the 3 big fat lies. This makes me reassess the entire situation. I am no longer entirely sure that this should end in a break-up after all. Perhaps I can live with the little lies. Should this love not be unconditional? Like any other form of love, perhaps self-love should also conquer all.

You know what?

I’m okay with me. In the grand scheme of things, I don’t mind being a slightly overweight, feisty, opinionated, non-diary-keeping, foul-mouth. Perhaps I took our relationship for granted and forgot to say nice things to me. Perhaps I stopped buying me flowers and arranging myself much-deserved massages. Maybe I stopped making time for me. It’s possible that I was being too hard on myself.

I deserve better from me.

I should love me better.

I should take me, to be my faithful companion, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.

I just totally chucked my virtual bouquet up in the air. It wasn’t all traditional and shit. I’m not boring like that. It was an arrangement of black roses. In fact, I wore a black suit. Fuck the white dress, okay. I haven’t been seen in one since Charlie Sheen was a virgin.

Now, catch the fucker and be next in line to vow to love yourself forever.